


Forged

by Raine_Wynd



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Clan Denial, Gen, Post-Canon, Richie Lives, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 13:51:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19401640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raine_Wynd/pseuds/Raine_Wynd
Summary: After his sword breaks, Richie goes to New York to forge a new one with Connor's help.





	Forged

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a blade-making TV series called "Forged in Fire", but not set in that universe. If you're a fan, feel free to pretend Drew's one of the champions. ;-)

Connor studied the setup in the garage-turned-workshop. For an amateur forge, it was well-equipped, with a large power hammer, a gas forge, and all the tools he would need. He turned to the owner, who grinned at his look of surprise.

“I won a sword-making competition, upgraded my tools,” Drew said. He was a heavyset, broad man with graying hair.

“What happened to tradition?”

Drew laughed and patted Connor on his shoulder. “If by tradition, you mean breathing coal fumes and having a body so sore from hammering I can’t even hold my dick to piss, I’ll pass. Don’t get mesmerized by the power hammer. I’ll be in the house if you need help, which you won’t ask for because I suspect you’re a stubborn bastard like me.”

Connor grinned briefly and pointed to Richie, who had hung back while Connor explored the space. “I asked him.”

Drew eyed him and dismissed him as the teenager he appeared to be, especially in a rock band t-shirt, jeans, and motorcycle boots. “What are you to him?”

Richie stepped closer. “His nephew, visiting from Washington State.”

At that, Drew looked at him askance. His look conveyed a native New Yorker’s sneer at anyone from the West Coast, and anyone he had not yet met who also happened to look like a naive teenager.

Richie bit back his instinctive growl at the assumption he was exactly the nineteen-year-old he appeared to be. Drew didn’t know Richie and Connor were immortal; he merely was a guy from whom Connor had rented forge space from previously.

Wanting to counter Connor’s gruffness, Richie offered, “Really appreciate you letting us use your forge. Way Connor was talking, I thought we’d have to do this all the hard way and I’d have to be his muscle like we did last summer.” Richie carefully didn’t mention Connor had put him to work hauling boxes and not forging a sword, but he wanted Drew out of the workshop. Richie didn’t care to make Drew his friend, but he also didn’t want to antagonize him into increasing his rental fee. The sooner they got to making this sword, the sooner Richie could move on with the rest of his life.

Drew looked surprised at Richie’s friendliness. “Are you making a sword to enter into a competition?”

“Something like that,” Richie agreed. “Sorry if we’re a bit abrupt, but we’re on a time schedule.”

Drew took the hint. “I’ll let you two get to it.” He exited the workshop.

Connor looked at Richie, who picked up the duffel bag he had brought with him and put it on the table in the workshop, then unzipped it to reveal the steel Connor had purchased for the sword, gloves, work aprons, and hand tools.

“Why do you want to forge a new sword?” Richie asked quietly. “You can buy any sword you want.”

“This way, I can make it fit what you need,” Connor told him, “instead of teaching you to compensate for what it already is. You’ve gone through how many swords now?”

Richie grimaced. “Mac says three too many.”

Connor nodded. “Your soul’s not in the blades he’s given you, and you wouldn’t trust another from him, even if I vouched for it. You associate the swords with bad memories. I heard about the challenge you took; Duncan said you fought against someone who was using his sword like a battering ram.”

Richie’s eyes widened, and he took a deep breath. “Yeah, my arms were sore for hours afterward. I thought the last guy I fought might have damaged my rapier, but I didn’t see any cracks until I went to pull it out of my scabbard a few days later. Guess the vibration of my motorcycle didn’t help.”

Connor nodded.

“Really appreciate you doing this. Never thought I’d be forging a sword. Way you were describing the process, I thought for sure we’d be here forever.”

Connor barked a laugh. “Last time I forged here, Drew had a coal forge. Wasn’t expecting this, but this is good. We can turn out a better blade in less time.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Weld one of those rods in the bin to this piece of steel,” Connor directed, “while I turn on the forge.”

Using the arc welder made Richie remember Tessa. For a moment, he wondered what she would say if she saw him now, welding a piece of iron rod to a plate of high carbon steel. Remembering how she had chastised him for losing focus, he forced himself to pay attention to what he was doing rather than lose himself in a memory.

Once the rod was attached to the steel plate, Connor put it in the forge. The heat of the gas forge surprised Richie; somehow, he was not expecting it to be as hot as it was. He was grateful Connor had warned him to wear something he did not mind sweating in or getting dirty. Once the steel plate was hot enough, Connor had him use the power hammer to draw out the steel to twice its original length before asking Richie to put the plate back in the forge. They repeated this process several times before they got the length Connor wanted. The piece went back into the forge, and then Connor hammered out the width, using a hand hammer to fine-tune the blade’s shape.

“Not willing to use the power hammer?” Richie asked Connor.

“Too easy to hammer too much,” Connor told him. “I can hear it when you use it.”

“Like having too much throttle and you wind up popping a wheelie when you wanted to go forward?”

Connor nodded. “You might wind up with too thin a piece or too long a piece.” He studied the piece before sticking it back in the forge. “This way, I check how far it’s gone before it’s unsalvageable.”

“Got it.”

Seven hours later, they had a roughly shaped sword minus a handle. They returned to the workshop every day for the next six days, refining the blade until it was somewhere between a broadsword and a rapier in width. Richie had expected to leave New York with a new sword or at least a repaired one; he had not expected to participate in forging a new one. He felt humbled and proud to learn what went into making a sword.

The sword’s overall length was designed with Richie's needs in mind. Richie carried his sword in a cross-body sheath, and he wanted something that would be easy to grab while not sticking out too obviously when he rode a motorcycle. He also wanted a sword that was not as susceptible to damage, even if his last opponent’s tactics had been extreme, but not so heavy that it became tiring to wield. Since they had power tools, Connor also designed a more elaborate hand grip, hand guard, and hilt than he had initially planned. The resulting sword looked like the child of a rapier and a broadsword, with a half-basket hilt. Connor had also carved his initials and Richie’s into the base of the blade, signing the sword.

When they were finished forging the sword and making a leather carrying sheath for it, Connor thanked Drew, paid him for the use of his forge, and then drove Richie to his warehouse to test the new sword.

Richie was nowhere near Connor’s class of sword fighter. What he appreciated more was that in Connor, he had one MacLeod he could still spar against without flashbacks to Duncan’s Dark Quickening. When Richie didn’t attack, Connor studied him a moment before nodding slightly, as if to acknowledge Richie’s thoughts.

“Waiting for an invitation?” Connor drawled.

Richie laughed. “It is your warehouse. Shouldn’t the host go first?”

Connor attacked; Richie parried, and reset. From earlier sparring, Richie knew Connor was fast and quick. If Connor wanted his head, Richie would be dead before he knew what happened. This fight wasn’t about how good Richie was, but to see how he fit with the new blade. To his surprise, the blade felt perfect in his hand, and after a few cautious moves, discovered he could move faster with it than his last sword. Richie had been dismayed to find a broken sword in his scabbard, but he had been grateful it had happened when he had been at home, in Seacouver, and with no immediate danger ahead. Duncan had examined the broken rapier and told Richie he was better off seeing Connor, who, between them, was the better blacksmith and weapons maker.

The joy of being armed again, of being armed with a sword that felt right in his hand, of knowing he could use a sword crafted with his input and care reignited Richie’s love of the weapon. Somewhere along the way, he had lost his awe of swords, seeing it only as a tool of his survival. Knowing he helped create this one made him treasure it all the more.

When they finally broke for dinner, Connor grinned at him. “You look better.”

“I feel better,” Richie admitted, though he was exhausted, sweating, and certain Connor had been holding back to allow him enough parries to get a sense of the sword in action. He would never ask; Connor would never tell him. “This sword feels amazing in my hand. Flying out here with just my main gauche and a broken sword freaked me out. Duncan thought we could salvage that blade.”

Connor shook his head. “Only if we melted it down and made it into something else.” He gripped Richie’s shoulder reassuringly. “Before you go, we’ll work on your low blocks. You leave yourself too open.”

Richie grimaced but nodded acceptance. Two decades of being in the Game had taught him a lot, but nothing like what Connor knew. If it meant spending the next week sparring every day with Connor, Richie would not turn down the opportunity to learn. He had a new sword, one he had forged with Connor’s guidance and assistance - and a better understanding of why he should have checked his old sword sooner for its strength rather than waiting as long as he had. He would take the lessons from this forging session, and the lesssons Connor would teach him in the days to come, and let the two combine to strengthen him for the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, including comments, kudos, keyboard smashes, and constructive criticism, is always welcome, even when this fic is "old."


End file.
